Page 31 of Life

Siete semanas.

Seven dickless weeks of absolute celibacy altogether. It’s the longest I’ve gone since my legs were broken by Antonio a little over five years ago. That time, I went a full year just to see if I could. Technically, the broken legs, healing wounds, group therapy with other domestic violence victims, and meeting and becoming best friends with Gillian definitely helped fight the hormone and libido battle back then. I could not say the same now. Getting out of his place ASAP was mandatory. My sanity warranted it.

I sigh as I enter my empty apartment. The air is stale and stuffy, but as I glance around, I’m welcomed by the fact that everything is in its rightful place. And it’s all mine. My memories of life beyond Antonio and the good times I’ve had with my girls overflow in frames on the small mantel. Even my cushy fabric furniture and multicolored throw pillows renew my sense of peace and tranquility.

This is my home now. Mine. Not some burly bachelor pad with leather couches that are too cold to sit on or that stick to my thighs if I wear shorts. What is it with men and leather anyway? Is leather somehow the quintessential fabric that says, “I am man—smell my leather couch as proof,” or something?

Blowing off those thoughts, I set about opening the windows and the patio door to let in some fresh air. I light a few candles and turn on the soundtrack to the newest show I’ll be working on in a few months. In the meantime, I need to get back to my regular exercise routines and connect with the few dancers I’ve taken on to help teach some of the harder choreography.

The dancers just coming out of the academy haven’t had a lot of real-world experience and need to be challenged and taught some new things in order to succeed. In this business, a person has to be the best, all the time. Knowing one style of dance is not going to keep a roof over our heads in most cases, unless the dancer happens to be the most famous in a specific style of dance, such as ballet dancers like Baryshnikov or Markova, or heck, the queen, Anna Pavlova, the first ballerina to ever tour internationally.

Me, I’m great at jazz, Latin, ballroom, and hip-hop, but my sweet spot—what I’m best known for—is contemporary and modern dance. Still, at twenty-eight, I’m aging out fast and not likely to ever become famous. Unquestionably, though, fame never once entered my sights. I’ve only ever wanted to dance and be a part of theatre, the big-screen entertainment equivalent in my chosen profession.

Hiding out at Eli’s this past week and a half has taken me off my routine and put the dancers who need me in a sour position. Sure, I could have told Eli I was moving back to mycasa,but it’s no longer any of his business, and I had to get away. I had to. I could not stay in that home one more day and not jump his bones. And for me, as well as for Tommy, I’ve abstained. It’s the right thing to do, no matter how much my body aches for Eli to press me into the nearest wall and fuck my brains out. I won’t do it. I can’t.

Decision once again firmly beaten into my mind, I make a few calls and schedule my sessions with a couple of the dancers using Bree’s I Am Yoga studio in Davis Industries across the street. She allows me use of the extra room she normally keeps for private sessions or meditation classes. It’s smaller than her normal yoga room but plenty big enough to work with my clients on their craft. As long as my sessions are during normal yoga hours or after hours when no one’s there, she doesn’t mind me using the place. And the best part, it’s rent-free. BFF status at its finest.

Wait,clients. Huh. I never thought of my peers as clients before. Colleagues, sure, but they are paying me to work with them, and I do pay taxes on the money I make, so I guess they are clients of mine. That’s when it hits me. I am serving as a dance instructor or consultant—achoreographerof sorts.

Choreography has always been a part of my everyday life, coming up with new moves, new stories to tell to the music being played. I’ve helped countless instructors and choreographers over the years solidify the routines and movements to some pretty large pieces. And I love doing it. I almost love it more than being on the stage myself. I definitely appreciate that it’s easier on my legs.

Performing on stage twice a day for a packed house for months on end is hurting me more than I’ve been able to admit to anyone. The ghost ache of those broken bones has brought me to my knees in the past few weeks more times than I care to admit, but I’ve ignored it because of everything else that’s been going on. The sorry truth is I’m not going to be able to ignore it for long. This new show I’m supposed to do in the fall is set to run for six months, provided the opening month does well. If so, I’ll be traveling with the crew for months all over the globe.

I clutch at my quads, my legs reacting already to the exhaustion, the wear and tear on my body, and the old injury that will inevitably ensue. While taking a deep breath, I put on my clothes and think about the clients I have today and what facets of dance I’m going to teach them.

Even though no one’s around to hear me, I chuckle to myself. Clients. It’s an interesting concept. Could I work with more people? Not the everyday dance class a child takes, but actual dancers already well into their craft. Maybe teach some classes at the local dance school? I wonder what a person needs to teach there. Probably a degree in education and dance—neither of which I have.

I could go back to school, get a degree in dance or teaching. Though it seems so ass-backward to go to schoolafterI’ve already lived the real-life experience of being a professional dancer for the past ten years.

My phone buzzes on the dresser across the room. I glance at the display and ignore it. I’m not picking up his calls. I need some damn time to myself. Five seconds later, my phone buzzes again. This time it’s Gigi. Of course, I pick up right away.

“Hey,cara bonita. What’s shaking, baby?”

“Ugh. Did you ignore your bodyguard’s call?” she asks, annoyance sitting acidly on the tip of her tongue.

A prickle of irritation flutters over my skin. “Maybe. What’s it to you?”

“Because he’s right here standing next to me with a pissed-off macho-man face that— Hey! Give that back.” I hear Gigi’s voice get farther away.

“Spicy, where have you run off to?” Elijah’s rumble soaks straight through to my bones.

This time I groan. “Can’t you take a breather,Cazador? I’m at my place getting ready to meet up with my clients. I’ve moved back home.”

“The hell you have.” He grumbles his usual distaste for my actions.

“Whatever, Eli. Antonio hasn’t so much as made a peep. I’m not staying with you anymore. The coast is clear. He’s leaving me alone. Your job with me is done.”

“When it comes to protecting you,Maria, my job will never be done.”

The way he says my name sends a lightning bolt of lust barreling straight to my core. I sit down on my bed and clench my thighs tightly together. He rarely uses my full name, and when he does, I turn to jelly.

I suck in a long, slow breath, allowing him to hear how frustrated I’m getting. “Eli, thank you. Thank you for being so kind the past ten days, but I’m telling you, I no longer need your help. I’m not afraid anymore. You and Chase’s men have proven Antonio is not coming after me. End of story.”

“It’s not the end.”

“Oh yeah, why not? Do you know something I don’t? Something you’re keeping from me?” I goad him, wanting to know if he truly is keeping something important from me in some type of valiant effort to ensure I’m not scared.

“No.”

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